Delicious Temptation

by Sabrina Sol

  He dragged his eyes up and down her body. “I never said you weren’t sexy.”

  “Yeah, well, all I’m saying is that I’m sure there’s someone out there who would appreciate what I have to offer.”

  The muscles in his neck flexed tight at the thought of some random guy making her scream with pleasure like he had on the night of the baptism party. He needed to get away from her. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from showing her that he was the only man she needed.

  He pushed past her and made for the door. “Do whatever you want—for a change. Just don’t forget I’m painting tomorrow night so you’re going to need to empty the refrigerator case before you leave for the day.”

  It was better this way, he told himself as he walked home. Finishing the bakery remodel had to be his top priority. And if he’d just lost whatever chance he’d had with Amara, then that was the price he had to pay in order to turn his life around.

  Besides, Amara had never been his to lose.

  Chapter Nine

  “Oh my gosh it’s so good.”

  Amara licked the spoon clean and sighed. Her new mango cream cheese frosting was the perfect pairing to her revamped coconut tres leches cupcakes. It was sweet, but not too sweet, creamy, and all kinds of buttery goodness. Surveying the two dozen beautiful creations before her, she couldn’t help but be impressed with herself. Even the diced, candied mango squares she’d added to the tops at the last minute were ah-mazing.

  Eric doesn’t know what he’s missing.

  She meant the cupcakes, of course. After their argument yesterday, Amara had shelved her little seduction plan. For all his mixed signals, he’d made it perfectly clear that he was determined not to be with her. As she painstakingly arranged the little delights onto two pedestal cake platters inside the refrigerated section of the display counter, she tried not to think of him or his hurtful words. Sure, they had motivated her to finally try out the recipe she’d been thinking about, and perhaps he’d even pushed her into trying to sell the cupcakes today. What her parents didn’t know…well, they didn’t know.

  On the self-standing chalkboard sign her dad used to advertise their homemade tamales during Christmastime, Amara carefully wrote:

  TODAY’S SPECIAL

  GOURMET Coconut Tres Leches Cupcakes

  With Mango Cream Cheese Frosting

  $3 each or $10 for 4

  Then she waited. And waited. And waited some more.

  Two hours later she’d sold a dozen plain bolillo rolls, about twenty dollars worth of assorted sweet breads and cookies, and a pack of corn tortillas. But no cupcakes.

  After another hour and no cupcake sales, Amara went outside and wiped the chalkboard sign clean with a dishtowel. Then she wrote:

  TODAY’S SPECIAL

  Coconut Tres Leches Cupcakes!!!!

  With Mango Cream Cheese Frosting

  $2 each or $5 for 3

  A sprinkle of customers came in, keeping Amara busy with sales of assorted Danishes and cookies. She even got a birthday cake order for the following Saturday. People looked at her cupcakes, but their eyes wandered away before she could even try out her sales pitch. By three p.m. she still had twenty-two cupcakes sitting on the platter (two had been her lunch). Heaving a big sigh, she made her way out to the chalkboard sign:

  TODAY’S SPECIAL!!!!

  CUPCAKES!!!!!

  $1

  She shuffled back inside the bakery. The defeat weighed on her shoulders like five-pound sacks of flour. Pulling a chair out from the small table, Amara slumped down and put her head in her hands. Tears stung her eyes; disappointment quivered her chin. She didn’t know what was worse—realizing that these delicious desserts were fated for the trash, or having to accept that her mother had been right after all: gourmet cupcakes had no place in East L.A. or the Robles Panaderia.

  This is what you get for trying. This is what you get for dreaming.

  It was all Eric’s fault. If it weren’t for his accusations yesterday, she would have never even tried. Anger rose from her belly, burning her throat as if she’d gulped down a handful of jalapeño seeds. She wiped away her tears and any remaining self-pity. How dare he try to analyze her or judge her? And why did she care so much about what he thought?

  We’re never going to be anything else. Those words had hurt before. Now they just made her mad. She rose from the table and stared at the cupcakes that mocked her from behind the glass. Part of her wished she could just shove them in Eric’s face and down his throat. Maybe he’d even choke on a few of those candied mango pieces. He couldn’t criticize her if he couldn’t breathe, right? But despite her newly formed feelings of despise toward him, Amara thought better of using her baked items as weapons of revenge. So she headed to the kitchen in search of a trash bag.

  Jingle. Jingle.

  The first thing she saw when she turned around was a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. The tiny designer logo spoke volumes about the man who just strode into the bakery. Combined with his expensive haircut, expertly groomed mustache and goatee, and crisp charcoal gray business suit, Amara knew he wasn’t from the neighborhood. The only time anyone wearing a suit walked into the bakery was to pick up a platter of cookies for a funeral reception. She usually heard when a neighbor had passed away, and since there were no familiar names listed in last week’s church bulletin, this mystery man was just that—a mystery.

  “Buenas tardes,” the man said, acknowledging her presence with a slight nod. He surveyed the perimeter of the bakery before walking up to the self-serve case of sweet breads, rolls, and donuts.

  She noticed the large gold watch encircling his left wrist. He definitely had money. And Amara needed to make sure he spent some before he left to go back to wherever he came from. “Buenas tardes. Can I help you find something? I just pulled those bolillos from the oven so they’re nice and warm.”

  “I can tell. They smell delicious.”

  So do you. She took another whiff of Mystery Man’s subtle cologne or aftershave. Pleasantness tingled her nose.

  He came over to the counter, took off his sunglasses and put his hands on the counter. “Although I’m sure those bolillos taste fantastic, I’m looking for some type of pastry or maybe a flan? I need to feed this sweet tooth of mine.”

  Mystery Man flashed a bright smile and Amara couldn’t help but smile back. His hazel eyes sparkled as much as his perfect white teeth. “We have flan!” she exclaimed, maybe just a little too enthusiastically. With a wave of her hand that would rival Vanna White’s, she showed him the refrigerated section of the counter. “And we also have rice pudding, capirotada—”

  “What kind of cupcakes are these?” Mystery Man pointed through the glass to her cupcakes.

  Amara’s heart leapt. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about them. “They’re Coconut Tres Leches with a mango cream cheese frosting.”

  “Sounds good. Are these the ones on special for a dollar?”

  While she wanted desperately to sell her cupcakes, she decided to take a gamble on what her gut—and that gold watch—told her.

  “Oh, no, sorry. Those were the regular cupcakes. I actually just sold out of those. These are the gourmet cupcakes. They’re three dollars each.”

  “Okay, I’ll take one.”

  One cupcake only. She fought to keep her smile from collapsing and told herself it was still one more than she’d sold all day. So she smiled like a wild woman when Mystery Man handed her a five-dollar bill and kept on smiling as she handed him back his change. She slid open the small rectangular door to the refrigerated section and pulled out one of the more perfect-looking cupcakes with a pair of plastic tongs. She asked him if he wanted her to box it up.

  “Nope. I’m going to eat it here right now. Don’t want to get crumbs in the Beemer, you know.”

  She actually didn’t know but nodded like she did and then handed it over along with a napkin. He carefully unwrapped the bottom before taking a bite. She couldn’t help but ga
wk as he chewed. He closed his eyes and nodded his head. Familiar anxiety tightened her chest as she watched Mystery Man consume the rest of the cupcake. He didn’t say anything for several seconds. And she didn’t breathe for that long either.

  Mystery Man swallowed the last bite and wiped his mouth with the napkin. Then he opened his eyes.

  “Did you make these…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  Her heart had been pounding so loudly in her ears that his words sounded muffled. Did he just ask her name? “My name is Amara, and yes I made the cupcakes.”

  His smile calmed her anxiousness. “Well, Amara, I have to tell you that was one of the best cupcakes I’ve had in awhile. My name is Brandon Montoya and I have a proposition for you.”

  …

  Eric muttered under his breath as he emptied bottles of water and cartons of milk from the refrigerator case. He couldn’t believe that Amara hadn’t done it like he’d asked.

  So what if they had argued. So what if he had turned her down…again. This was about her business and she should’ve helped him out.

  He was already at least thirty minutes behind schedule and he still wasn’t close to being done. Miguel was supposed to stop by on his way to the hospital and drop off some more cans of paint. Eric had hoped to have the case cleaned and moved before he got there.

  The back door creaked open, signaling that he’d just run out of time.

  “Hey man, sorry, but I’m not done cleaning the case yet. Your sister forgot to empty it before she left today,” he yelled from the front of the bakery.

  “I know. That’s why I came back.”

  If the sound of Amara’s voice startled him, then the sight of her just about knocked him over. She stood in the kitchen’s doorway looking the damn sexiest he’d ever seen her. Her usual wild waves had been tamed into a new sleek and straight hairstyle and her face glowed, from the shimmer of bronze around her eyelids to her glossy pink lips. Eric swallowed hard, surveying her halter-style dress, which exposed bare shoulders and a teasing hint of her ample cleavage. The black sundress fit snug on top, but then flared from her waist into a flowy skirt embroidered with a swirling gold flower design. The dress fell just below the middle of her calves and he could see her perfectly polished red toenails peeking from her high-heeled sandals.

  Desire pierced the shield he thought he’d built back up after their fight yesterday.

  He clung to the carton of milk in his hand like his life depended upon it. Words escaped him. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, and how much he so wanted to pull her into his arms and forget that he ever said they didn’t belong together. As she stood there, not saying a word either, he told himself he’d wait for a sign. Something, anything, to let him know that she still wanted him as bad as he still wanted her. If she did, then he’d make her his that night.

  She took a step toward him, and he started to move closer when a catcall whistle screeched from the shadows of the darkened kitchen.

  “Look who’s all dressed up!” Miguel entered the bakery and Eric froze in place. His friend walked to his sister, took her by the hand, and made her twirl in front of him. “Wowee, Amara! You look amazing!” The rosiness of her blush-covered cheeks deepened and Eric wished he could say something to put her at ease. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. She did look amazing.

  “So what’s the special occasion? Did you finally let mom set you up on a blind date?”

  Miguel helped himself to one of the bottles of water Eric had just taken out of the case and stood next to him—both of them facing her.

  “No. It’s not a blind date,” she looked at him, not her brother. “This guy came into the bakery today and he tasted one of my cupcakes—”

  “You made cupcakes…to sell in the bakery?” he interrupted, finally finding his voice.

  “I did,” she said coolly. “Anyway, he loved it and apparently he owns this new restaurant downtown so he asked me to have dinner with him, you know, at his restaurant, and—”

  “So it is a date. Good for you! What’s his name?” This time Miguel interrupted her, which was fine with Eric since he didn’t want to hear much more after she said the guy asked her to dinner.

  “Well, it’s…” She looked at him again, but he turned away to finish emptying the case. “His name is Brandon Montoya.”

  “Brandon Montoya,” Miguel echoed. “That name sounds familiar. Wait a sec, does he own a restaurant called L.A. Cuchara?”

  Even Eric knew who Brandon Montoya was. Not because of his restaurant but because he’d just seen something on TV about the guy being named one of Hollywood’s bad boy bachelors. The guy had a reputation for sleeping with, and then dumping, actresses and models. And now he was taking his Amara to dinner?

  Rage swelled inside. He took it out on the next water bottle, throwing it harder than he needed. It missed the crate and bounced off the floor. Eric swore under his breath and picked it up without looking at either of them.

  Amara and Miguel continued their conversation, not even noticing Eric’s growing irritation. “Yes,” he heard her say. “That’s the restaurant I’m going to tonight. How did you know?”

  “Our firm made a bid for his building. But his company ended up bringing in the same architects who built his New York restaurant,” said an obviously impressed Miguel. “Dang, I can’t believe my sister is dating a millionaire restaurateur.”

  “I didn’t say I was dating him,” she blurted, a little too quickly. Eric turned around. She met his stare for a few seconds before looking at her brother. “Well, this is our first dinner. Let’s just wait and see how tonight goes before you start marrying me off, okay?”

  They both laughed, but Eric didn’t join in. The uneasiness in his stomach wouldn’t let him even a crack a smile. “Excuse me, but I have to go get more crates,” he mumbled. As he walked by Amara, he didn’t dare look at her for fear she’d try to talk to him.

  But just as he passed her, she said his name. He stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t empty the case like you asked. The excitement of everything, well, I guess I forgot. I was hoping I could do it tonight before you showed up. But then you were already here.”

  “It’s fine,” he snapped, betraying the angry swell of emotions raging in the pit of his stomach. He quickened his steps and walked out of the kitchen’s back door, into the alley.

  Pacing, he tried to regain his composure. Seeing her tonight in that dress and hearing about her date with a successful businessman had sent him stumbling into a place he hadn’t been to in a very long time.

  Eric Valencia didn’t do jealous. If the girls he dated ever flirted—or more—with other guys he always ended things on the spot. He figured if they wanted something different then they could have it. Why waste his time? And it was always easy to let them go. He learned at seventeen that being invested in one person left him open to being used or hurt. He’d spent the last twelve years erecting a barrier around his heart to keep it safe from ever being that vulnerable again. And no woman had ever threatened to breach that wall. Until now.

  You told her it was okay to find someone else.

  True. But he hadn’t expected her to find that someone in a day.

  A familiar craving for his old friend Jack Daniels whet his lips as if he’d already taken a drink. He closed his eyes. He could feel his control slipping away. The last few days had been hard. He’d been so focused on battling his attraction to Amara that he’d loosened the grip a little on his tether to sobriety. It would be so easy to bail for the night and walk to the nearest bar.

  If you leave now, you know you’ll never come back.

  His own bluntness startled him. Yet it was the truth. His sponsor had once told him that alcoholics were the best liars in the world, especially to themselves. And only when you started being honest with yourself could you take responsibility for the decisions you made.

  Eric knew he’d just come to a crossroads where what happened n
ext could change his life forever. Did he really want to say, “Fuck it,” and fall back into his old ways and old problems? Or did he want to take control of the situation and continue on this road to a redemption of sorts?

  One path was definitely easier than the other. But it would also probably end with his abuela crying over his grave.

  Eric paced the alley until the urge to drink passed and he knew he could walk back into that bakery and focus on the job he had to do. He’d go to a meeting tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he’d even call his sponsor later tonight.

  He’d do whatever he needed to keep that drink out of his hand and Amara out of his head.

  Taking one last deep breath, he picked up one of the plastic crates he’d come out to get and hurled it against the alley wall.

  …

  Rrrr Rrrr Rrrr Rrrr

  Amara turned the key again.

  Rrrr Rrrr Rrrr Rrrr

  “Come on!” She slapped the steering wheel. “Come on Stella!” Her 1967 blue Ford Mustang flicked her dashboard and other interior lights in response. After a couple more tries, though, the lights went dark and she heard only a click when she turned the key again.

  It was after ten-thirty and she was alone in her car in the parking lot down the street from L.A. Cuchara. She debated going back to the restaurant and asking Brandon if he knew anything about cars. But she remembered his stylish Armani suit and figured he probably preferred to stay away from a greasy engine. She could call her dad, but that would mean explaining to her mother why she was downtown in the first place, which would involve her spilling her surreptitious plan to sell the cupcakes. That left her brother. But after her fourth attempt to call only reached his voicemail, she figured he must be asleep or have his phone turned off so not to wake the baby.

  You’re a big girl, Amara. Just call a tow truck.

  She looked around the almost deserted parking lot. Without enough cash for the restaurant’s valet, Amara thought she’d lucked out finding a back corner spot in a lot on the same block. Now the shadows hid her car from the street—which meant they would also hide anyone trying to abduct or kill her. It wouldn’t be the smartest thing in the world for her to meet a strange tow truck driver out here in the dark all alone. She needed someone with her, someone to drive her home in case the tow driver wasn’t a serial killer but still couldn’t get Stella started.